The Fairy Reel
by eegeegee
Summary: This is Kensington Gardens; give the clicking teeth a turn and she will tinkle ever so prettily.


The Fairy Reel 

Fandom: Peter Pan

Pairing: Tinker Bell-centric, Peter/Wendy

Rating: PG

Warning: Unbeta'd

Disclaimer: Characters are property of J.M. Barrie, and I am still poorer than a church

mouse.

Summary: This is Kensington Gardens; give the clicking teeth a turn and she will tinkle

ever so prettily.

"Handsome is as handsome does. All that glitters is not gold."

- Unknown

Before the tinkling, there was the grinding of clicking teeth. It was a wonder. There was always the wonder, because her skirts were the humming of a bird's wing; because her reflection was the radiance of dusty gold; because she tinkled to the air beneath her toes. The wonder of it all.

She could just hear the faint notes falling into rhythm and the raucous laughter beyond the darkness. She couldn't have known, because no unborn thing could even _know_; but she had imaginations of knowing, imaginations whispered into her dreams by rustling gossamer wings and prickly skeleton leaves. From her unborn darkness, Tinker Bell was born fairy bright.

For all her gold dust and imagined knowledge, her birth was not an unknown thing, but she was more than fairly surprised by what came afterwards. The luminous pairs of eyes were a kaleidoscope of too-honest mirrors, the feather and spider-silk wings spun circles in the air and laughter crept around corners in a game of hide-and-seek. Everything was too loud and too bright. Everything didn't matter a whit, because she was not his first laugh.

"Hullo, Tink!" Joy was static in her ears and she knew that for always she would dance to the tune of her name.

The melody of her tinkling digits entranced her, fascinated her, just as much as her curious reflection did, but it was all glittering mist compared to his skipping mirth. Tinker Bell seethed red and green at the thousand of pieces of his first laugh that were not her creation. She knew that he was the first even if he had forgotten.

Many a child wandered into this realm of the young and lost, all full of never dreams and bewildered smiles. Their spirit singed our blood, making it boil, and we crown them in dust of light. They in turn shower us in earnest thimbles of love. Always. Their promises made gravity pool at our throats and we drown in the sky of blue. Tink knew, they all knew, that the lost ones did not lie, were not capable of it. They just didn't know how fast they would forget; how promises sprout feet and were lost in the pillows of sleep.

But then, there was he, the boy who was not a John or a Michael and certainly not a _Wendy_. He may disappear at stretches at a time and have even longer stretches in memory, but then again, anything less, and he would not be a Peter Pan. They all flipped tails and bumped heads to tell him their stories; it was about how mermaids were jilted maidens who found haven in the arms of the sea, or how fairies were beings tailored to fit the size of their vain little hearts. They often squabbled over the truth of the stories, but truth be told…it has always been. Truths were sometimes about irresistible sirens of the sea and winged wish bearers of the fae. It hardly mattered that all were lost within the two minutes of Never, because Peter had a knack for forgetting; they could always tell better truths.

He had her wound tight as a little rabbit-ear knot around his pinkie and she danced a twirl of vertigo, trying to chase away the clicking constriction between her lungs and the warmth on her cheeks. Tinker Bell only wished she could be still enough to gaze at him for more than two seconds at a time. With Peter so close, all she could see were the white of his eyes, his large baby teeth, and his turned-up nose; she was in ____ click…click…It was a de facto thing. Just as so, Tinker Bell hated _her_. She, with her lightly coifed brown hair, her all-too-bright cheeks and her dimpled hand held in his. It was just another one of those things.

The first time Peter asked her to be the great ugly girl's fairy, she tinkled something beautiful; something along the lines of "You silly ass."

It was darkness again, a darkness that can only be found within drawers. The fleeting morning glow and blue nights had drifted through the key hole of her safe since her un-birth. Many a times the ticking teeth were winded and her melody wept plaintive drops of patterned notes, but when lids were lifted it was never he. She lived in his shadow because she knew he would slip through the night, his feet slick with soap, looking for his darkness, if not for her. Her feet were faithful partners and her skirts were rainbows to paint the sky, but as it all chimed to a slow and her lazy heart pumped rivulets of lead, she knew one could not live on dust alone. Except for Peter, of course, for he was one less of a heart.

"Mother! O the lovely!" Jane looked with rounded eyes at the music box in her hands.

"Oh, my! It's the trinket I picked up at the toy store by Kensington Gardens." Wendy gazed fondly at the now silent memento of a Never past.

It was a past held fast in the quick sticky fingers of a lad whose little laugh pieces skipped warm in the hollow of their chests. You see, it seems they (girl and fairy alike) had both selfishly lent their hearts to a certain heartless boy whose loan was long overdue.


End file.
